


A Halo in Reverse

by 1863



Category: Original Work
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Demons, Extra Treat, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 21:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17691290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: “What prayer could a demon offer in a house of God?”





	A Halo in Reverse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monsoon_moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsoon_moon/gifts).



He’s here again.

Or at least, Nathaniel assumes it’s a he. Kazith, he’d said his name was, laughingly whispered into the darkness one night when Nathaniel had lain panting in bed, one hand between his legs as he thought about what to call his occasional unseen visitor. He hadn’t known he was being watched, had startled so badly he nearly cried out, and then the thought that he was being _watched_ sunk in and made him cry out all the same. Kazith hadn’t touched him—Kazith never touches him—and Nathaniel always tells himself he’s grateful for it.

The church is silent now, at this time of the night, no sound but the creak of wood as he shifts on the pew. But just as certainly as he knows his own name, he knows he isn’t alone anymore.

He tries to ignore it. Keeps his eyes closed, his back straight, his head bowed. Recites the words silently, moving the beads through his fingers one by one, trying to find the stillness within him that rose up whenever he cycled through these ancient, familiar prayers.

He’s undisturbed for long enough that he starts to hope, faintly, that he’s been left alone again.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name._

“Nathaniel.”

He freezes. The voice is soft, coaxing. And much, much closer than he’d expected it to be. But Nathaniel keeps his eyes shut and forces himself to continue.

_Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven._

“Are you so sure what his will _is_ , Nathaniel?”

He feels the faintest displacement of air beside him and takes a deep, steadying breath: incense, beeswax, smoke. And—yes. Brimstone.

He shuts his eyes tighter and keeps going.

 _Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses_ —

“Have you trespassed today, Nathaniel?”

— _as we forgive those who trespass against us_ —

He stops, waiting for another comment, rubbing the rosary bead between forefinger and thumb. His eyes are still closed, too afraid of what he’ll see if he opens them, and equally afraid that he won’t find it as horrifying as he should. _He must be watching me_ , Nathaniel thinks, and a flush of heat washes over his face just as quickly as shame floods his belly.

“Where’s the next line, Nathaniel? Say it out loud this time.” Another displacement of air, and now the voice is whispering right into his ear. “It’s my favourite one.”

Nathaniel swallows, mouth gone dry, heart hammering in his chest. Kazith has never come this close before.

“And lead us not—”

Something touches his ear, not just the breath of whispered words, but something more substantial—something soft, and warm, and wet. His breath hitches, words stuck in his throat as the shell of his ear is slowly, teasingly licked.

“Keep going, Nathaniel.”

“Lead us not into temptation,” he says, gasping a little, “but deliver us—”

The tongue moves lower, down over the side of his neck, flicking gently at his pulse point.

“Deliver you from what, Nathaniel?”

“From—” he starts, and has to stop when he feels unnaturally warm lips brushing his jaw.

“From?”

“From evil,” he finishes, voice unsteady with—fear, he thinks desperately, and knows at once that it’s a lie.

“Amen.” There’s laughter in Kazith’s voice now, laughter and _heat_. “Will you continue, Nathaniel? You’re not done yet.” The beads in his hands rattle a little. “Or will you allow me to say a prayer of my own?”

He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should never, but the very idea is so outrageously blasphemous that Nathaniel finds himself opening his eyes anyway. And what he sees is… Nathaniel can’t bring himself to regret it, because he— _it_ —he—is beautiful.

Devotional candles gild him in soft gold light, emphasising the sharp, sculpted planes of his inhumanly flawless face. His eyes are dark, terrifyingly so—no whites at all, just a pure, bottomless black—but Nathaniel finds himself staring regardless, pulled in without resistance and at risk of getting lost forever. He forces himself to blink, to refocus on something else, and his gaze lands, unbidden, on Kazith’s smiling mouth—his full lower lip, and the long, forked tongue that slowly sweeps across it.

A tongue, Nathaniel thinks, that had been on his skin, just moments ago.

He swallows and looks away quickly.

“A prayer,” Nathaniel says, and hates himself for how breathless he sounds already, how undone. “What prayer could a demon offer in a house of God?”

“The same thing everyone else prays for.” Kazith laughs quietly, a kind of cruel delight evident in his voice. “The things they most desire.”

The air shifts again and again Nathaniel turns towards it, helpless as a puppet on a string.

Kazith is at the confessional boxes now, one long-fingered hand against the door.

“Will you join me?” He half-turns and smiles, slowly, the expression creeping over his perfect face like a shaft of sunlight piercing a darkened room. “I could use your guidance, _Father_.”

His voice drops on the last word, a low deep rumble that sinks into Nathaniel at once, so quickly that he gasps, sick with longing and shame and greed. He's powerless to stop it, desire engulfing him with the same heat that Kazith burns with too.

He stands, shakily, and makes his way to the confessional.

For a long, charged moment, Kazith simply looks at him, unfathomably dark eyes sweeping slow and languid over his entire body, covetous and possessive. Nathaniel is fully clothed, collar and all, with only his head and hands uncovered, but something in the way Kazith looks at him makes him feel as naked as the day he was born. He’s utterly exposed, in every possible way, and as Kazith’s eyes continue to drink him in he feels something twist in his belly, a hunger deeper and sharper than he’s ever felt before.

Kazith pushes the door open and pauses, tilting his head as though listening for something Nathaniel can't hear. And then he smiles again, knowingly, something glittering in the depths of his black, black eyes, and without breaking eye contact he slowly sinks to his knees.

“Is this how it’s done, Father?”

Nathaniel swallows. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Kazith’s smile widens.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Nathaniel takes a breath before stepping into the opposite box, pulling the door closed behind him. He takes a seat and despite the wall and screen between them the heat from Kazith’s body is stifling in the cramped confines of the tiny room. Sweat breaks out across his hairline and above his upper lip and Nathaniel reaches up, trying to loosen his collar. Kazith is little more than a silhouette on the other side of the screen now, still somehow edged with gold despite the lack of candlelight here, and as Nathaniel brushes his fingers along his throat he sees Kazith lean forward, intent.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says. “This is my first confession.”

Kazith’s voice is very quiet but no less resonant for it, a honeyed echo filling the small space with its deep, clear sound. It’s unexpectedly disorienting and Nathaniel has to press a hand against the screen to steady himself.

“I keep having impure thoughts, Father. Impure fantasies.”

Nathaniel licks his lips.

“Oh?” he manages, and even then, it’s barely more than a shaky exhalation of breath.

“Yes,” Kazith says. “Very impure. _Filthy_.” He lazily traces the outline of Nathaniel’s hand on the screen with a fingertip. “Is that forgivable, Father?”

“I would need to know—” and here Nathaniel has to clear his throat, his voice so husky that his face flushes with embarrassment, “—what these fantasies are.” He coughs again, fighting with himself, but the words come out anyway. “Perhaps they’re not as impure as you think.”

Another quiet chuckle, another flash of instinctive, wrenching _want_. There’s silence for an interminable minute or two, only the sound of Nathaniel’s uneven breaths disturbing the hush of the church at midnight.

“I can’t stop thinking about him, Father,” Kazith says.

His voice has become even deeper now, so deep Nathaniel wonders whether Kazith is somehow speaking directly into his mind. The prospect of it, the _violation_ of it, makes his heart race, his breath quicken, and—God help him—his cock twitch, and Nathaniel grips either side of his chair to stop himself from gripping anything else.

“I can't stop thinking about how he'd feel,” Kazith continues, relentless. “Under my hands, under my body. How he'd sound as I took him into my mouth.”

Nathaniel bites his lip but can’t contain the small sound he makes, can’t stop his cock from getting harder by the second. He’s imagined it before, this creature on its knees before him, _for_ him, but only now does he know just how beautiful that creature is; only now can he accurately picture how that mouth would look, stretched wide around his cock.

“I wonder if he'd beg,” Kazith says. “I wonder if he'd give up his vows for this. Just for a moment, I wonder if I could convince him that this could be holy too.”

A pause, and Nathaniel holds his breath, waiting.

“But I wouldn't let him come,” Kazith adds softly, “I wouldn't want to drag him down into the depths of my sin. But _oh_ , Father,” Kazith whispers, voice ragged with obscene promise, “how I would _worship_ him, just as fervently as he worships his God.”

Nathaniel tightens his fingers around the chair and closes his eyes. He tries to get his breathing under control but it’s no use; he’s panting and sweating and desperately, painfully hard.

“How,” he hears himself say. “How would you worship him?”

“The same way he worships every night, as he prays the rosary.” Nathaniel hears him take a breath, like he’s savouring a memory. “With his hands, with his lips…” He trails off, and Nathaniel finds himself leaning forward, inexorably drawn closer. “But instead of beads I’d have his body in my hands, and my prayers would be whispered into his skin.”

Nathaniel swallows, throat bone dry. The heat coming from the Kazith’s side of the box is intense now, unbearably so, but he doesn’t dare move, not even to wipe at his brow or undo a single button of his shirt. His cock throbs painfully as images flood his mind, one after the other, each one more explicit than the last: Kazith on top of him, Kazith beneath him, Kazith moving _inside_ him.

“Oh god,” he whispers, unable to stop himself. It comes out as a moan and Nathaniel’s face burns with it, with the guilt and the shame and the sheer, savage _need_.

“Yes,” Kazith breathes. “I would treat him like a god. Every part of that devout body, every inch of pious skin, every hidden dark place no one else has been before. None of it will go unworshipped. None of it will go untouched.”

“None?” Nathaniel whispers.

The answer is immediate, and claims him like a burning brand.

“ _None._ ”

“And would you,” Nathaniel pants, arms shaking with strain as he grips the chair so hard his fingers have gone numb, “would you… _take_ him?”

A quiet ripple of laughter, sharp and edged with some secret delight.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have to take him, Father.” Kazith presses his face against the screen, lips brushing the thin, patterned wood. “He would let me in.”

And this Nathaniel sees with sudden, terrible clarity; himself on his knees, face pressed into the bed, Kazith kneeling behind him. This he now _feels_ : Kazith pushing into him, every thrust hard and brutal and wild; Kazith deep inside him, pulsing hot and hard and heavy.

“Oh god, _god_ ,” Nathaniel gasps, eyes shut tight, whole body straining towards Kazith in the opposite box. He knows it isn't real, that he's in the church and not in his bed, he knows that he's never been touched by anything other than his own two hands, but the sensations are undeniable, assailing him with agonising intensity _—_ Kazith’s burning hands all over him, his devil's tongue wrapping around him, Kazith’s cock mercilessly driving into him, again and again and again _—_

“Oh, fuck, please,” he begs, not even knowing what he's begging for.

“Go on, Nathaniel,” Kazith whispers, and his voice is so smoothly compelling, his request so simple and easy to grant, that even though he tries to fight it Nathaniel still follows it effortlessly, all the way down, down, down.

“Oh, oh _fuck_ ,” Nathaniel chokes, desperate and ashamed, as Kazith’s voice washes over him and he helplessly thrusts up into empty, desecrated air. “Please, don’t _—_ don't make me do this here, _please—_ ”

“Yes,” Kazith says, laughing again, “yes, exactly. Please.”

There’s a sound like a hiss, an electric crackle in the air, and when he smells the faint scent of brimstone Nathaniel comes with a strangled shout, the pleasure so vicious he doesn’t even notice the tears on his face, nor Kazith’s name on his tongue.

**

When his mind is clear again Nathaniel finally releases his death grip on the chair, grimacing as each finger slowly, painfully uncurls. He takes a deep breath and feels faintly sick; the confessional stinks of sweat and sex, the air still heavy with unnatural heat.

“You didn’t give me my penance, Father.”

Nathaniel jumps as the door is pulled open. Kazith is standing there with a small smile on his face, unholy and profane and perfect. His eyes land on the mess of Nathaniel’s trousers and whatever ease Nathaniel gave into before is entirely gone now, replaced with a twisted mix of guilt, arousal and shame. He knows his face has gone red but resists the urge to cover himself, once again feeling utterly naked and defenceless under that solid black gaze.

“Penance is usually prayer,” Nathaniel manages to say. His voice is hoarse and unsteady. “Prayer and—diligent acts of worship.”

“Prayer,” Kazith repeats thoughtfully. “And worship…” His eyes travel over Nathaniel’s body again, a long slow sweep up and down. “Like the prayer and worship I just described to you?”

Answers war within him, and Nathaniel doesn’t even know what will come out of his mouth until the word is spoken aloud.

“Yes.”

His stomach drops and his heart beats painfully, even as the sight of Kazith’s open desire for him makes his hands shake with the need to touch.

“And would I be forgiven, then?” Kazith asks.

Nathaniel looks away.

“The truly penitent are always forgiven.”

“Ah. Well, then,” Kazith chuckles. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep repeating my penance until it sticks.”

Nathaniel flushes but says nothing, too afraid of giving away more than what’s already been taken from him.

“You said my name, earlier,” Kazith adds, stepping closer and leaning down. “You’ve never done that before. Do you know what it means, Nathaniel? To speak the name of a demon?”

This close up, Kazith’s heat is scalding but Nathaniel makes no attempt to move away.

“No,” he says softly. “I don’t.”

Kazith smiles, his mouth so maddeningly close that Nathaniel can almost taste it—the ash on his breath, the smoke on his tongue.

“It means you can call me to you, any time you have need of my…” Kazith’s smile widens. “Services.”

Nathaniel takes an unsteady breath.

“Any time?” he repeats.

Kazith licks his lips, a feral hunger in his eyes and dark promises in his voice.

“ _Any_ time.”

Nathaniel closes his eyes against it, even though he knows it will make no difference at all.

“Why are you doing this to me,” he whispers, wrecked and wretched, inside and out.

Kazith laughs and Nathaniel hates the way it thrills him, the way it makes his blood run hot with mindless lust.

“Because I can,” he answers lightly, and runs one long, burning fingertip over the curve of Nathaniel’s cheek. “You can blame me all you like, Nathaniel, but we both know that corruption comes from within.” Lips brush his jaw, feather-light and hot as flames, and Nathaniel can’t even try to stop himself from leaning into it.

But Kazith pulls away again, dancing just out of reach.

“And _your_ corruption, Nathaniel,” Kazith adds, “tastes especially sweet.”

Then the air seems to ripple, like heat haze on a road, and Nathaniel knows without looking that Kazith is finally gone.

Any time, Nathaniel thinks, looking down at his lap and surveying the sacrilege that he’s wrought. He could have this any time. He could have _more._

All he had to do was say Kazith’s name.

Nathaniel stands, unsteady and shaking, and returns to the front of the church.

Face burning, cock twitching, he retrieves his rosary, kneels at a pew, and starts to pray.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song _Halo_ , by Depeche Mode.


End file.
